


The Difference Between Us

by captain_tots



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Exhibitionsism, Kidnapping, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all want sex and power. But Silva's the only one who really enjoys it.<br/>---<br/>00Silva Gift Exchange fic, with *all the ships* included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference Between Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bitterlotus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bitterlotus).



> I would not go as far as to describe this fic as "non-con," but it is very much DUBIOUS consent, so please keep that in mind before proceeding.  
> This turned out to be *far* more Q/Silva than I anticipated, but there's still some 00Silva goodness in there. I just went where the plot took me.

* * *

_Let's go walk to the border_

_Let's go walk along the edge_

_Let's go when no one can see us_

_And find the difference between us_

* * *

Q prefers the tube at three in the morning to rush hour, if only for the fact that he’s not crammed in between a few thousand people, all coughing and breathing and pushing into him. What he doesn’t care for so much is that he’s been down in the tunnels of MI6 for almost forty-eight hours straight without a moment to clear his head, and more or less snuck away home out of shame. He couldn’t bear to look at another computer screen; all the lines of numbers were just blurring together, and none of them said anything good.

It’s been about forty-two hours from the time Mr. Silva breached their system and made his escape through these very trains, with the help of a police uniform and a car full of mysterious henchmen. 

It’s been forty-one hours since M was dragged back to MI6 headquarters, as close to kicking and screaming as he’d ever seen her, escorted by five armed police officers who claimed they couldn’t let her remain exposed any longer.

And it’s been forty hours since they lost Silva’s trail. They’d filled every government building up to the brim with officers and even some military personnel, sat down and waited for him to show up in search of M. They should have known that he was too clever to walk into such a simple trap.

Really, they did know that they wouldn’t catch Silva that way, but they had to do something: with the hard drive missing, M publicly shamed, and Silva vanished, throwing a few guns around at least looked like they were taking measures of security.

Q looks around the near deserted train and sighs. He’s feeling a bit uneasy, with the whole “terrorist set on destroying MI6 is loose in London,” deal going on, and he really should have requested a security escort to his home, but that would have been admitting he was going home, rather than scuttling out the door as he did. Anyway, it’s London, there’s not a place you can go where you’re not on camera.

“Not that Silva seems to mind,” he reminds himself.

Just thinking about Silva makes his skin crawl, and it’s more out of humiliation than fear. He plugged Silva’s computer into MI6’s own network. He crashed MI6, introduced enough spyware into their system that he’d spent half the day troubleshooting pornographic spyware which kept popping up on everyone’s screen-Silva’s idea of a joke-and let Silva escape. Had someone told him that Silva, a former agent, had helped write MI6’s emergency protocols himself, Q wouldn’t have touched the laptop with a twenty meter pole.

But he did, and now there’s nothing left to do but go home and sleep off the fog that’s settled in over his brain. He’s really beginning to wonder just why he didn’t request an escort home, because at the end of his train car, three suspicious looking men have just entered.

In any other circumstances he wouldn’t find them suspicious at all. Just three well built men in their late twenties, bundled up in heavy winter coats-maybe too heavy; maybe hiding something-and giving him some sideways glances. Probably because he looks like a wreck; his hair has taken on a mind of it’s own, and he’s got dark circles under his eyes threatening to engulf his whole face.

His own stop is next, and it’s barely a five minute walk to his flat from here, so he shouldn’t be too concerned, except that the three men get out as well, through the door at the other end of the car. Q bites down on his bottom lip, walks a little faster. He glances over his shoulder and sees them following him. He considers going into the men’s room to see if they follow him there, but that’s a terrible idea, because then he’s surrounded, and then they’ll grab him off and take him to Silva, probably with an apple in his mouth and a bow on his ass.

He stops walking for a moment, just before he walks down the stairs, and looks at his mobile. Behind him, he sees them walking directly to the side, stalling. They’re following him. He knows it.

But, thankfully for Q, there’s a police officer on patrol just at the base of the stairs, so he rushes down and tries to not sound terribly out of breath when he attempts to explain his predicament.

“Hi, um, excuse me, officer, there’s some men here following me I believe, and if you could just walk me to my flat...” his words run dry halfway through, because the police officer is looking at him as if he’s insane. The officer in question is a middle aged man with salt and pepper black hair and bushy eyebrows. At least he doesn’t look anything like Silva.

“And why do you think they’re doing that, son?” the officer asks, looking skeptical.

“Uh, well, there was this girl,” Q lies, making up something on the fly that doesn’t endanger national security. “And I didn’t know she was seeing someone...”

The officer laughs.

“How far away do you live?”

“Five minute walk, I swear.”

“Alright, let’s get going.”

Q thanks the officer profusely and looks over his shoulder. He sees the three men turn to walk the other way.

They make it as far as a block, when the officer stops Q in front of a squad van.      
  
“Just a moment, son,” he says, and taps on the glass window. Q should have ran then, but he’s too tired and confused to know how to respond, so when three men in police uniforms burst out of the car and handcuff him, he doesn’t even resist, because he should have known this was going to happen.

The last thing he remembers is a needle in his arm, and then darkness.

* * *

  
He wakes up in a white room, tied to a chair. It’s completely empty, other than a mirror which occupies the majority of the wall to his left, and a door. The lights are bright enough to burn his eyes, so he closes them again and thinks about what’s going to happen to him.

He’s alone, and no one knows where he is. 

Q cracks open his eyes, and sees that he’s wearing the same prison uniform they had Silva in. It’s much too large for him, and he doubts it’s going to stay on properly if he has to stand. The thought makes him cringe.

The other thing about the uniform is that it smells like Silva, and Silva smells like coconuts. He starts laughing, because he can’t help himself anymore. He’s a prisoner of an insane terrorist, evil beyond his comprehension, and evil smells like coconuts.

He laughs until his throat is sore, because it’s really starting to kick in, how completely fucked he really is. If they haven’t been able to find Silva with Q, how are they going to find Silva without him?

The door opens.

Silva looks much more relaxed than the last time he saw him. Of course, this may have something to do with the fact that Q is the one captured now.

Silva’s wearing a blue suit that makes him look like he just got done with a day of trading stocks or cutting business deals. He’s holding a glass of wine and smiling wide enough to show teeth. Q tries to breathe.

“Jonathan, that’s your name, is it not?” Silva speaks, and Q feels his heartbeat quicken. He does not respond.

Silva paces around the room, hands folded at his waist, like he’s assessing him.

“Oh, please don’t be such a bore. We could stand around here for days and wait for you to confirm what I already know. Or you could just agree with me. Hmm?” Silva shrugs his shoulders.

Q nods.

“My name is Jonathan,” he says, soft. If Silva already knows everything about him. There’s no point in making him angry.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. You’ve only been in charge of Q branch for a few weeks now, but I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Q can’t hide his confusion when he looks at Silva.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. The new security ciphers and encryptions, redistributing your budget from R&D to intelligence... very smart of you. I was never partial to R&D myself; those fools were too concerned with some sort of imagined gadgetry arms race to make anything practical.”

Q doesn’t make a sound. Of course he knows all this. He knows everything.

The word makes a lump grow in his throat.

Everything.

“You’re a clever boy. But not half as clever as I was.” Silva smiles broad, and knowing what’s right under his skin makes Q twitch. “Is your new position everything you hoped for then?” 

“It is satisfactory,” Q says, terse and unemotional.

“Oh my!” Silva exclaims with a laugh. “Satisfactory. How wonderful. I suppose it hasn’t been able to crawl up under your skin just yet then; it’s only been a few weeks, after all. Those first few seeds of boredom and frustration. The first time you can’t make the right move because of protocol. Tell me, Jonathon, have you tried sleeping with any of your superiors yet?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Q answers.

“Because, it’s not as fun that way,” Silva replies. He walks right up behind Q’s chair, and speaks softly into his ear.      

“MI6 has their files on everyone. I’ve read yours, of course. When I was deciding who should become the next Q. Really, I was surprised you were even in the running. So young, so inexperienced. And let’s not forget your psychological evaluation, hm? The one which almost put you on a suspension of service?”

Q chokes on nothing more than air. He’s not prepared for interrogation, although Silva is simply parroting things to him which he already knows. But, deciding who should become the next Q, that catches his attention. He won’t let on just yet though.

“She has a type, you know. Handsome young men who are guaranteed to burn themselves out in a few years- who always want more than what they can have until it destroys them. Success, recognition, sex, power... is that what you want?”

Silva’s breath is hot and sticky in his ear.

“I know what you’re thinking right now. That whatever I might do to you, you’ll claim was a product of Stockholm syndrome, and that you didn’t enjoy it one bit. That’s what you think you’ll tell James when he comes for you. But you know that it won’t be true. Because right now, you’re thinking about me, aren’t you? Hmm? Thinking about the things you could do to me to get your freedom? Sex is a weapon, just like a keyboard or a gun.”   

Silva kisses his neck and bites down with teeth, hard enough to bruise, light enough to make Q moan just slightly, but enough for Silva to hear.

“I know everything about you, Q,” Silva whispers, and he’s not sure if it’s foreplay or a threat.

* * *

  
“Are you at least going to untie me?” Q asks, and really it’s a stupid question, one which he full well knows the answer to. 

The pants are too big, and they slide off rather easily, right down to the floor where Silva is sitting. This isn’t what he expected.

“This isn’t how your encounters typically go, now is it, Mr. Q? Did you expect to play the pale and shivering wretch, in an attempt to get some sort of pity?”

“I don’t think you have a sense of pity.”

Silva grins. Like a cat with a mouse.

“I don’t.”

Q groans when he feels Silva’s mouth around him, and pulls his bound hands into clenched fists. He’s dying, absolutely dying, because Silva knows him too well, knows every way to make him cry out against his own will. Silva is making good on his threat. 

“You thought,” Silva breathes, “that I was going to bend you over that chair and fuck you, didn’t you?”

Q can’t answer, because he loses the power of speech the moment Silva begins again. Trying to resist is just a losing game, and he’s ashamed of the fact that he’s enjoying it, and he’s not used to playing this part. He’s accustomed to acting out scared and vulnerable, and now that he actually is scared and vulnerable, he’s the one getting off.

“You’re not going to last much longer,” Silva comments, and Q does his best to prove him wrong, but there’s not a whole lot he can do but give in.

Silva swallows. It makes Q feel filthy in a way he can’t quite express.

 “Tell me, Jonathan, did you swallow for James?” Silva asks, looking oddly satisfied.

 "How do you know about that?” Q pants, still reeling from the orgasm and whatever he’s been drugged with and this entire fucking situation.

“I didn’t. I just guessed.” Silva stands up and brushes the knees of his pants off. It’s funny how the balance of power can change so suddenly. Now Silva is the consummate hunter again, and Q is his prey, tied to a chair with his dick out.

“You see, you, James, and myself, we’re all cut from the same cloth, so to speak. Of course, it took two of you for her to recreate one of me, but the comparison remains. We always need more. More power, more danger, more sex, more accomplishments to rack up for no one to look at but ourselves. And the two of you don’t even enjoy it, do you? Oof. There’s the difference between us. You all fuck and kill, whether it be with a gun or a computer, because you need to. I do it because I want to.”

 Silva laughs.

“You poor boy. You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”

Q’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know how to deal with the barrage of insults and commentary from Silva, because it all sounds somewhat true.

“Who? With M? No.”

“She has her toys, you know. Pretty boys like you.”

“I never,” Q gaps, breathless from the gravity of the situation.

Silva smiles. 

“Do you think that James is going to save you?”

Q doesn’t answer.  

* * *

 

James finds them, of course, not even an hour later, and Q isn’t sure if he’s happy about it or not. There’s the smash of the wooden door splintering, Bond rushing on by himself, because he’s headstrong, far too cocky and impractical to bring reinforcement. He probably came after Q without telling anyone where he was going or why. Q’s read his file. As has Silva, he’s sure.   

“Mr. Bond!” Silva exclaims. “Always a pleasure. I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to my last proposition, hm?”

Bond is standing on shaky legs, Q can  see it. And if Q can see it, than Silva already knows that Bond is nervous; Bond is on edge; Bond is realizing that he’s running on zero sleep and up against a man he either does not understand at all, or understands far too well. Q sees the hesitation in Bond’s eyes.

And that means Silva knows exactly what’s going on.

“You sad creatures,” Silva muses aloud, taking a leisurely step towards Bond. Bond pulls a gun on the man. Silva scoffs.

 “You’re not going to shoot me, James.”

 "Why the hell not?” Bond snaps back.

 “Because, remember that clever trick I played with MI6’s gas line? It’s startling how easy it is to do the same thing to the house of Parliament's utility system. Really, I expected more from The Crown. Guy Fawkes is dead and buried, but that doesn’t mean it’s appropriate to leave the doors wide open.”

“You’re lying,” Bond says, not a trace of emotion to his voice.   

“Prove it,” Silva replies.

Silva strides over to Bond, not a single worry expressed on his face.

“Put the gun down, James.”

Bond stares at Silva, unyielding.

“I said, put the gun down, James.” Silva’s hand extends out to Bond, slips over the waist of his suit. To Q’s surprise, Bond puts the gun down.

Silva gives Bond a kiss on the cheek. Q winces.

“If I told you that I would stop the explosion if you fucked me, you would do it, wouldn’t you? Mmhm.” Silva nods.

“And what makes you think I would do a thing like that?” Bond growls.

“Because you need it. And I’m giving you an excuse. No guilt. No explanations. Do it for Queen and Country.” Silva pauses, trails his hand down to Bond’s ass.  

“Do it for Her.”

Bond actually groans, and Q has never been so terribly uncomfortable in his life, as he feel a twinge of arousal when he watches the other two men kiss, hands on each other like they’re starved.

He thinks about Silva’s proclamation earlier, on the nature of himself, and James, and Q.

_“You need it. I want it.”_

 And as he sits, tied to a flimsy chair in an empty London flat, where no one will hear him scream, watching as Silva bends Bond over like he’s a puppet, Q thinks that Mr. Silva just may have been onto something.

* * *

  _You can cry like a baby_  


_Just let me do what I need to_

_It might be to me or to you_

_Just let me do what I need to_


End file.
